In Memoriam
by HeyItsMJ
Summary: Four years later, Kanna passed away. "Everyone grieves differently." Five drabbles of those who knew her.
1. Pakku

His tears were like drumbeats: slow and steady.

His body ached as he moved, like his bones were made of splintering glass. _How fitting_, he thought bitterly. Indeed, everything had shattered.

It seemed like he had only found her just to lose her again. Sixteen years together, sixty years apart, and only four happy years for him to cherish her in the end.

And they _were_ happy years, he remembered. He didn't know of any woman who'd aged more beautifully than his Kanna. Still the same high-spirited girl with bright eyes and a pleasant laugh, despite the many lines on her face. For the thousandth time, he wished that it had been _he_ who had grown old with her.

_Better late than never_, spoke his mind, as he fingered the delicate necklace of blue shell. He remembered what she had said to him the night he proposed, the second time. She never could think of why she had really kept his old necklace, even when married to another man. "I guess I wanted to remember," she said, "that I didn't hate you. I only hated that it wasn't my choice to make."

"You have a choice now," he'd answered quietly. "Will you choose me?"

She had, and the now the drumbeat tears came faster. Only four years of happy memories, and although he screamed against the unfairness of it all, he would keep them. It would be enough, until fate could bring him back to his Kanna again.

Sixteen years together, sixty years apart. Four years in love. Pakku took comfort in that at least this time, they wouldn't be separated for too long.


	2. Hakoda

His tears were like the tides: ebbing and flowing.

Inside, two halves of him were fighting. _Be strong, be a father, set an example._ He trapped his tears. _It's okay, let go, she was your mother._ They would spill out in torrents.

He was chosen to lead the ceremony, a nearly impossible task due to the warring emotions. Speaking of his mother and how she had lead the people filled him with a pride and fondness that he had been her son. Seeing his heartbroken family made him want to climb down from the podium to go weep with them.

The biggest struggle was carrying the body to the pyre. _This was my mother? This cold lifeless thing was my mother? The woman who would sing me to sleep at night when I was a child? The woman who would scold me for abandoning my chores to run off and have snow fights?_

He held his children to him as the shaman said the final prayers. There was a lump in his throat as he tried in vain to salvage his dignity and hold back the tears, but memory after memory came through his head: his mother tucking him into his sleeping bag, the taste of her sea prunes, his mother tearing up when he received the Mark of the Wise, his mother telling him to be safe when the fleet left for Fire Nation waters.

"Dad?" It was Sokka, tucked under his right arm. But just barely; he still couldn't get over how that boy had grown. "Dad, it's okay. We loved her too."

Hakoda nodded stiffly. _Be strong, be a father, set an example._

"Dad, it's okay. It takes courage to cry."

The tears came in floods.


	3. Katara

Her tears were like rivers: a continuous current.

She felt empty, and yet they kept coming and coming and coming.

Her head hurt and she hadn't slept well for days, but she couldn't make herself stop crying. Because unlike when her mother died, there was no place to fill, no job to take over, nothing to distract and keep her busy. She had all the time in the world to mourn, and her body seemed intent on doing just that.

It was the same tragedy, with a newfound pain.

Gran-Gran had given her so much, she realized. She'd taught her tribal customs and how to sew and clean and cook. She'd calm her down when she was angry, console her when she was sad, and scold her when she needed it. She'd encouraged her to practice waterbending all she could, and gushed that she would one day be the master to restore the tribe.

Gran-Gran had filled the void left by her mother's death. And now the hole had been unplugged again.

But remembering her grandmother, she decided she couldn't be empty for long. As Gran-Gran had told her time and time again: there is always hope.

And what would Gran-Gran say to her now, if she saw her granddaughter sobbing like a child? _That's quite enough,_ she imagined the old woman's voice in her head chiding. _Goodness, this is the girl who fought the Fire Princess? Dear, it was quite fine to cry weeks ago, but now you are being ridiculous. Pick yourself up._ _No matter how much it hurts, you haven't lost everything. There is always hope._

Hope. It was Gran-Gran's greatest gift, her most important lesson. The streaming tears lessened slightly, and the shoulder she was crying on took notice.

"You alright?"

She nodded, sniffing. "I will be."

Gran-Gran had given her hope, Katara thought, as she shifted back into the Avatar's embrace. In more ways than one.


	4. Sokka

His tears were like constellations: only spotted by a practiced few.

He wasn't so much overcome by anguish or grief; as a warrior, he had been taught not to dwell on your losses. He was thrust into the place of caretaker, with Pakku and his Dad excused for their emotional attachments, and Katara taking a much-needed break from her mothering position. His job was to help the others move along, become the leader.

But he couldn't help but feel…bare. Gran-Gran had been such a common part of his life that it was like looking in the mirror to find one eyebrow missing: you didn't notice until it was plainly obvious. He'd walk into the kitchen and expect her to be at the fire making stew, but find it was another cook. He'd sit at meetings and expect to see her at Pakku's side, but the chairs had been shifted and it was another waterbender in her place. After a day of fishing, he'd return to the house and call out names as a way of announcing his return, and only at the last minute remember not to say hers.

But as much as these moments bothered him, he didn't want them to stop.

It was this frustration that drove out the rare tears; he had to encourage everyone to move on, but at the same time…he didn't want them to.

Because if everyone moved on, wouldn't everyone forget?

But would it be better for them to forget, if all memories brought were sadness?

Why did all the people he loved have to leave him?

But he couldn't dwell on his losses. He had a family to pull together, a tribe to lead. He was a warrior. For his grandmother's sake, Sokka would soldier on.


	5. Yugoda

She did not cry.

When she received and read through the short letter, she did not cry. She sat quietly. She thought quietly.

The healer thought of her friend. She thought how she never got to say good-bye. She thought how she never would.

This has always and would forever vex her. _Why, Kanna? Were you too rushed that night and simply forgot? Were you afraid someone would discover you? Did you not trust me enough with your secret? Was I even a close enough friend that you would bother?_

She shook her head, banishing those thoughts. No, that wasn't how her friend thought of her. She was too kind, too good to be that way. She had simply made her escape, as runaways do, and what was the point of escaping if people expected you would?

Sometimes in the years following her leave, she would wonder, after a hard day, why she didn't escape herself. Just follow Kanna's example and take the next trade ship south. But she never seriously thought about it enough to go through with the plan. Engagement and marriage and children came and went, and she remained in her healing hut at the top of the world, while somewhere far away, her childhood friend was making her own choices.

_We are the two sides of water,_ she thought with a chuckle. _Rebellious and independent, and going with the flow._

She would never be able to say good-bye. But one day, she would see Kanna and the friends would embrace with open arms. Young again. She could almost see her friend's unlined, smiling face as she welcomed her home.

She did not cry.

Yugoda smiled quietly, remembering.


End file.
